


Erised stra ehru oy

by wooden_turtle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bellamione Cult Discord Game, Discord: Bellamione Cult, F/F, I Don't Know Where This Is Going, Mirror of Erised, underage to be safe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-04-07 17:10:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19089436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wooden_turtle/pseuds/wooden_turtle
Summary: When she looks in the Mirror of Erised after she comes back to Hogwarts from her first winter break, Hermione Granger has an unexpected revelation which involves a certain witch she's recently read about.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annacec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annacec/gifts).



> This is going to be a short story, 3 to 5 chapters I think. I am unsure how explicit it will be but I'm rating it Mature so I can have some leeway. Also, if there are underage sex scenes they'll probably be imaginary, not real but I put up the warning just in case.
> 
> Blame the Bellamione Discord Cult for the prompt, they're awesome.
> 
> Also, I've got only a vague idea where this is heading. Enjoy nonetheless!

Hermione’s been doing _a lot_ of reading, even by her own standards. She’d have called it light except some of the stuff she’d seen has been rather disturbing. But she had to find out about Flamel, didn’t she? The boys could not be trusted and she bet they’ve been playing Wizard’s Chess or something for the whole break instead of research.

So she went home for the break with a dozen or so books on ancient wizarding families, to have a look at their family trees. So far she hasn’t found a single mention of Flamel, which she didn’t like at all, but she was also learning a whole lot so frankly, she didn’t complain.

She actually started making a scrapbook of sorts with all the incredible witches and wizards she’d read up on so far. There were Merlin and Dumbledore, naturally, but she also kept finding references to _a lot_ of extraordinary witches, like Morgan le Fay (she was dark, yeah, but she was still very accomplished), Ignatia Wildsmith, Rowena Ravenclaw of course… Why, right now she was reading a book on The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. They were a pretty scary lot but many of them were also renowned for their discoveries and accomplishments.

Even their latest generation (at the time of the book’s writing, which was some twenty years ago) seemed to live up to their name. One Bellatrix Black graduated with twelve Outstandings in her N.E.W.T.s (when most students took no more than six) and also published a paper on wand transfiguration while still at Hogwarts. Now that’s a role model, thought Hermione while copying her accomplishments into her scrapbook. She also wondered briefly at the small photograph of said witch throwing back a gorgeous mane of dark curls. She’d probably want to copy that, too.

Also, she’d have to find some newer information on the subject. She was really interested in what kind of life someone with twelve Outstandings would lead once she grew up. Probably something really great.

With a sigh, Hermione closed the book and opened the next one, some _Magical Herbology Through The Ages_. The search for Nicholas Flamel, whoever he was, had to continue.

~~~

When she returned to Hogwarts she hadn’t even had time to visit the library before Harry and Ron found her and proceeded to fill her in on their adventures. She didn’t even roll her eyes when they told her about sneaking out after curfew. She must have been getting used to this, and that was a bit disturbing. Even more disturbing was the fact that the boys actually found out who Flamel was all by themselves. That was probably a good sign, though.

While she immersed herself into studies and Flamel-related brainstorming, she also couldn’t help but wonder about the Mirror of Erised that the boys found on the winter break. It felt a bit unfair that she didn’t get to look at it. A lot has been going on in her life lately; first and foremost the whole “magic is real” thing, but also the influence of certain reckless boys that she couldn’t deny. She now didn’t as much as flinch when rule-breaking came up and her past self just from a year ago would definitely be affronted by this. She’d always pictured her future self as an accomplished scientist, maybe a writer of textbooks, and she was not exactly sure if this desire of hers was still true.

So, she wanted to check.

When she approached Harry privately, he seemed to understand at once what she was after. With a mischievous smile, he told her that while Dumbledore asked him not to seek out the Mirror after it’s been relocated, he never specifically said no one else should. Also, his nighttime explorations might have earned him some pointers on the Mirror’s current location (probably in another wing of abandoned classrooms) that he just so happened to notice. Oh, and Hermione totally could borrow his Invisibility Cloak for a night if she felt like it.

This was how Hermione ended up in an unused Hogwarts wing at night, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak and frowning at herself. Her mental dispute on whether her behaviour was acceptable and whether it was acceptable that she thought her behaviour acceptable was ended when she opened a classroom’s door and saw that she had found her destination. The Mirror stood there, covered with cloth and rather imposing. She closed the door behind her, took a deep breath, and resolutely pulled the cloth down.

 _She was sitting in an airy study behind a desk covered with neat stacks of books and scrolls. She was writing with a fountain pen_ (thank god), _no doubt creating something really complex and important. On the wall behind her hung various certificates and plaques, listing her achievements. A clipping titled_ “The Brightest Witch of The Generation” _hung there too, for some reason in two copies, as did a record of her own twelve Outstanding N.E.W.T.s. There was a cat purring on the windowsill._

So far, so good.

_Another pile of papers, probably tax notices, were pinned in place on a coffee table with a… dagger?_

Something was off.

 _The dagger was black, slick and sharp-looking. Now that she thought of it, there were several more daggers about, pinning stacks of papers, sticking from bookshelf sides, even used as makeshift darts with some complex diagram on the wall as a dartboard. Some of the books in the stacks were decidedly dark-looking, one of them was moving and it had_ teeth. _Her own self didn’t seem to mind in the slightest._

_Now that she took a closer look, the two clippings on the wall weren’t identical. One was her own for sure, but on the other, the photo was not like Hermione at all. The witch on it possessed a mass of black curls that Hermione had seen somewhere already…_

_The cat on the windowsill lifted its ear, startled by some sound she couldn’t hear, and into the view came Bellatrix Black._

What?

 _She was older, Hermione’s age in the mirror, which was around twenty-five probably, but this was unmistakably the witch from the book she read on the winter break. She wore all black, a dress with a corset and high-heeled boots, and she looked… Stunning, really. With a swift motion, she hurled another dagger at the makeshift dartboard, and it landed right in the middle._ Hermione on the classroom’s floor flinched. _Hermione in the mirror didn’t._

_The dark-clad witch approached Hermione, petting the cat absent-mindedly on her way, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. She then seated herself next to the girl and wrapped an arm around her, her curls brushing the mirror Hermione’s cheek. The latter seemed completely at ease with what was happening and turned her head to gently kiss Bellatrix’s ear, then returned to her writing. Bellatrix appeared to read through the paper before her, then elbowed Hermione in the side and pointed something out. A mistake, maybe? The two proceeded to have a heated discussion about the subject which ended in Hermione sighing theatrically and crossing something out on the page. Bellatrix petted her head with a triumphant grin._

Hermione was sure she now _really_ knew what “dumbfounded” meant. Her jaw kept moving as if some words were trying to find a way outside but she wasn’t sure what they would be: her brain was right now devoid of coherent thought, desperately trying to process what she’d just seen.

‘Looks like I like girls, eh?..’

A rational observation. Okay. She could work with that. Now that she thought about it, it even rang true. Her interest in extraordinary witches felt deeper than casual admiration. She could dwell on that later, though; right now, she had more to process.

Okay, so, it didn’t sound so bad. Sexuality revelations aside, she still wanted to be some kind of scientist or writer, renowned and accomplished. To have someone at her side who cared for her and was intelligent enough to discuss things she worked on. Who she could be proud of in turn. This sounded… really nice, actually.

And Bellatrix Black, with her transfiguration paper and perfect Hogwarts record, seemed like a good candidate for her imagination to latch on to when creating a would-be… spouse? Even though she seemed a bit… unhinged to Hermione on the photo she saw. This was probably where the daggers came from. Would she really be at ease with such a personality? She’d have to dwell more on that, too.

 _Meanwhile, another argument in the mirror took an unexpected turn. Instead of raising their voices, the women seemed to think it a good idea to turn their spat into a kiss, which was becoming… rather heated. But when the dark witch’s hands started travelling down the other girl’s body, partly concealed by the desk, the latter extracted herself from the embrace. She shook her finger and mouthed, unmistakably, “Bella, no”._ For some reason, this was what made Hermione blush harder than anything before that. _Bellatrix pouted rather adorably, and Hermione’s expression softened. She added what appeared to be “Not now”. At Bella’s_ —Bellatrix’s— _questioning look she pointed to the mirror’s surface, right at the real Hermione sitting in front of it._

Her gaze locked with the one of her mirror counterpart’s and for a while, they were just staring at each other, the younger Hermione’s eyes filled with worry, incredulity and just a bit of anticipation; the older one’s full of care and promise. Then her mirror self’s eyes narrowed, and she _smirked_.

The mirror grew dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, she still doesn't know. Yet. But I promise she will find out in the next chapter :D

“So I was still trying to handle that but then they, we, started _kissing_.” Hermione all but whispered the last word, even though she’d been speaking low to begin with. Her eyes were wide open and her expression probably looked comical. Harry certainly looked amused, though not in a bad way. She was once again grateful that they became friends; she didn’t think she could confide in anyone else with this.

They were sitting in the Common Room next to the fireplace. Harry had waited here for her return but other than that, the room was empty. The fire crackled merrily and the red decor of the place made Hermione feel even more warm and cosy, a welcome change after ominous dark corridors and the otherworldly feel of the Mirror of Erised. She’d had her share of troubling revelations for the night, and now she wanted to feel at rest.

When she finished recounting the story, Harry told her it was a wonderful adventure, and it was hard not to agree with him. Seeing that she was in the mood to talk, he asked, “How long did you know you fancied girls, then? If you want to talk about that, of course.”

“Well, I didn’t think of it at all until tonight”, Hermione replied, “but now that I saw it in the Mirror, I think it’s true. I’ve always, you know, admired brilliant women. Scientists, inventors, artists; others, too. I always thought that was because I wanted to be one when I grew up but in hindsight, there’s more to that. I’m not sure how I feel about boys though. Maybe I’ll know that sometime later.”

“So what about you Harry?” she said when he didn’t reply, just nodded. “Whom do you fancy?”

“I dunno yet,” he shrugged carelessly. “It’s you who’s a grown-up twelve-year-old here, not me. I’d rather think about Charms and Transfiguration and Potions and the Philosopher’s Stone right now, I can deal with the whole relationship stuff when the time comes.”

“That’s rather mature of you,” she said, impressed, and Harry smiled. They grew silent for a while. “…You’re not going to judge me, are you?” she asked belatedly, growing a bit worried.

“'Course not Hermione!” Harry hastened to answer. “Why would I? You do what makes you happy, and if someone finds fault with that, I’ll be the first one to stand up for you. I’m sure you’d do the same for me, that’s what friends are for, isn’t it?” he smiled tentatively.

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione gave him a fierce hug. Her eyes might have been a little wet but she was new to this whole having friends and being supported thing, okay? So she allowed herself to sniff once or twice then broke the hug, pulling herself back together. “Of course I would.”

“Anyway, what do you want to do about that next?” asked Harry after they’d sat a while in comfortable silence.

“Why, go to the library, of course!” she replied right away and Harry burst out laughing. Much as she was serious, she smiled, too. “No, really. I mean, not right now, obviously, but if I see a person in the Mirror of Erised I definitely have to research them. The book I read that mentioned her was written twenty years ago, I’ve got to find more recent sources. And I wanted to do that even before I went to look at the Mirror.”

Harry nodded. “That makes sense. Do you need help with that?” he asked, but Hermione could see from his expression that looking for Flamel made him rather weary of the idea. To be fair, she couldn’t blame him. Burying oneself in research was not everyone’s cup of tea.

“No, I’m good” she answered, and Harry let out a relieved sigh. She chuckled, but her chuckle turned into a yawn. “A-anyway, we should probably go get some sleep. It’s what,” she turned to look at the Gryffindor-colored grandfather’s clock, “oh, a quarter to three already? My, we have to get up in… Oh Merlin, Harry, we have classes tomorrow!”

“Now that’s the Hermione I know,” smiled Harry.

Hermione was already striding towards the girls’ dormitories but that didn’t stop her from anxious rambling. “No, really, it’s the term’s start, I must go to bed now or I’ll be drowsy the whole day, I can’t fall behind in my studies, what if I _fall asleep in Potions_ —”

At Harry’s witty “well, there’s always History of Magic”, she hit him with a cushion.

~~~

Her research didn’t yield many results. She found a note in a 1969 newspaper about a marriage between Bellatrix Black and Rodolphus Lestrange (why would she marry so early? was that a thing at the time?) but that was it. No more mentions of either Bellatrix Black or Bellatrix Lestrange, no scientific papers, no kids even. Come to think of it, newspaper archives for the entirety of the '70s were missing. That was unnerving but Hermione was not the one to back down from a challenge.

So she asked Madam Pince about the missing newspapers (by now she felt uneasy about the whole situation and didn’t mention who exactly she was looking for). The librarian witch looked at her unhappily.

“I’m afraid, Miss Granger, that I cannot help you with this. Whatever research you are doing, you’ll have to use other sources.” Hermione opened her mouth to ask why but Madam Pince continued, “I’m not sure to what extent you are familiar with the most recent Wizarding History but surely you know that decade was the time of First Wizarding War.” Hermione nodded, her expression growing wary. "It was a dark time, Miss Granger, dark, and filled with despair. People going missing or being killed outright; innocent people having to resort to violence themselves just to survive. There was no peace to be found, and for a time, we felt as if there was no hope anymore.

“This is a decade all of us would very much like to forget. However we mustn’t, for the sake of our present and future. This is why the newspapers are still here, in this library, and you’ll be able to study them, Miss Granger—but not now. They are stored in the Restricted Section, and you have to be in your fifth year at least to access them.” At Hermione’s disheartened expression, caused by both Madam Pince’s tale and the fact she’d have to find another way to continue her research, the librarian’s features softened into a sad smile.

“Believe me, Miss Granger, you don’t want to see them now. Perhaps later, when you are a bit older—but for now, you are young, and so is our peace. You better look at what we have now, not what we have lost. I’m so glad your generation doesn’t have to live in that world.”

Hermione didn’t quite know how to react to what Madam Pince said. Her speech must have turned out much more personal than the librarian herself anticipated, and Hermione, being young and not having lived through that time, had absolutely no frame of reference as to what the people who survived this felt. So she just said an emphatic “Thank you” and made haste to leave for the Common Room. She had a lot to think over.

She also couldn’t get out of her head the librarian’s pinched expression that stayed on her face even as Hemione was leaving. The witch would probably be reminiscing for a while now, and it wouldn’t be pleasant. Hermione couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry that she started the conversation. It explained a lot, however, the forlorn look all the adults in the castle seemed to share from time to time, haunted by ghosts that weren’t translucent and didn’t rattle chains, but got under your skin nonetheless. It also explained, yet again, why exactly people looked up to Harry so much.

She read about all this in books but without much detail, and it didn’t really sink in until today.

As she was sitting in front of the Common Room’s fireplace, quiet and thoughtful, she couldn’t help but wonder, _What about you, Bellatrix? What happened to you in that god-awful time?_ She wanted to know that even more than she did before.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello again. Remember that promise I made, that she'll find out in the next chapter? Well, I lied.
> 
> But! I'm not evil (I hope), sooo I've written the next chapter, too! I'll be posting it once I go over it which should be within an hour I hope.
> 
> Enjoy!

For a few days, Hermione didn’t find out anything new. Firstly, the school term was now in full swing, and as she didn’t limit herself to mandatory assignments, she decided to take a break from her, ah, extracurricular research, as she came to call it. It was nagging at her from the back of her mind though, her thoughts straying whenever her concentration faltered.

‘Bezoar is the most practical poison antidote, given that it will protect the one who ingests it from most of the existing potions. This is one of the reasons it is expensive and hard to come by in the Wizarding World’. Yeah well, after ten years of war it was no wonder its reserves were depleted.

‘Transfigured objects are as precise as the caster’s knowledge about them, and abide by the laws of the universe to the best of caster’s understanding.’ Lifting a quill to think over the next paragraph; wondering, instead, of Transfiguration’s application in wizarding warfare. If you’ve held a key you needed a copy of, you could probably transfigure its duplicate provided you remembered its shape well enough. If you, oh, transfigured _people_ … just like Professor McGonagall had explicitly told her pupils not to do… okay, this was gruesome to think about. _But rather fascinating_ , a tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered. _Shut it._

Two paragraphs later, she caught herself drift off again. She remembered Bellatrix’s wand transfiguration paper that she didn’t get a chance to read yet: apparently, papers that were students’ extracurricular work were stored in a special archive and you needed explicit permission to view them.

What did she transfigure her wand into anyway? The only idea that made sense to Hermione was some kind of a melee weapon. That implied the witch was proficient with at least one, maybe several, weapon types, and Hermione’s inner know-it-all lamented the fact that she didn’t have any relevant experience. As if there was an unspoken, one-sided competition between her and Bellatrix Black the perfect graduate, which meant Hermione had to outdo her in every area she could. That was beneficial for her productivity, at least.

While she was still thinking about weapons, her mind flashed to the daggers she’d seen in the Mirror of Erised. Idly, she wondered if there was a way she could learn throwing daggers during the summer break.

Ugh. She was distracted from her essay _again_ , and this would simply not do. She needed to complete her research, then it would hopefully bother her less.

This brought her to another problem: she didn’t know whom to ask.

She couldn’t exactly go and talk to Madam Pince again, not when she’d seen how it hurt the witch to tell her about the war at large. Come to think of it, this was a valid concern for any adult in the castle. They had all probably lost someone then.

She briefly wondered if the war was why Professor Snape was always so gloomy.

Her peers that were raised in the magical world would probably know something, and as they hadn’t experienced it directly, it shouldn’t hurt them much to ask. But that was not really feasible either: she was only close enough to ask with Harry and Ron; Harry quite possibly knew even less than she did, and Ron, well…

She could ask him, that much was true, and having grown in a wizarding family, he would likely even have an answer. The problem was that she questioned the validity of this hypothetical answer. As a kid he’d probably got a significantly redacted account of the war; much as she respected him, he wasn’t exactly the person to cross-reference things he was told with books or other people’s stories; finally, and that reason was a bit selfish if she were to be honest, she couldn’t ask him about Bellatrix specifically because she was positive he had no frame of reference whatsoever in regards to powerful, intelligent women.

Not to say anything bad about the women he was acquainted with (and his mother sounded like an extraordinary witch from what he recounted), he just couldn’t seem to grasp it. Hermione knew because she’d seen the way he looked at her whenever she said something perfectly reasonable. She was pretty sure he thought she was herself not a girl but an alien in disguise. Or whatever wizards had in place of aliens.

So, she seemed to be stuck. If only there was a person here in the castle whom she could ask for help when she was overwhelmed with something and had nowhere else to go, someone well-versed in the wizarding ways…

Something rang to her when she put it that way, and in the next moment, she realized she was being stupid. There was a witch in this castle who told her, in almost exactly the same terms, that she was available for her Gryffindors anytime should they need something. As for raising potentially upsetting topics, well… at least it was in the witch’s job description.

Hermione would go ask Professor McGonagall.

~~~

As she was standing outside her Head of House’s office with her hand raised to knock, Hermione hesitated yet again. Trying to quash her rising anxiety, she tried to once more run through her reasons why this was a good idea. When that didn’t help, she breathed out and rapped at the door before her mind could catch up with what her hand did.

“Come in.” Here goes.

Upon seeing Hermione, the witch’s features softened into a smile. “Ah, it’s you, Miss Granger. Please come sit. How can I help you? Is everything all right?”

Sheepishly, Hermione approached the chair in front of Professor’s desk. As she did so, she took in the witch’s office she just entered. It was the first time she came here: at the term’s start, she was rather determined to cope with her struggles herself, and later, she had Harry and Ron to turn to.

Professor McGonagall’s office looked surprisingly homey. Instead of being decorated with an abundance of Gryffindor red and gold, the room had its tone set by a red-green tartan hanging from the wall, sporting what Hermione assumed was the McGonagall’s family pattern. The ornament repeated itself on the lampshades, and the rug before the fireplace matched it in hue. The fireplace in question was lit, the flames cracking merrily and warming the air. On the mantelpiece, and elsewhere in the room, she could see a few trinkets which looked personal rather than pretentious in any way. As she looked the room over once more, she noticed a pair of modest but clearly well-used bookshelves that she had to deliberately look away from. This was not the time to try and read the books’ spines.

On the witch’s table, there were stacks of parchment, organized in a way that was obvious only to the one who devised it. Next to them stood a cup of what Hermione presumed was tea. The witch herself was clad in a gown over her usual formal robes, its tartan proving to be another matching piece of the room’s decoration. She was looking at Hermione with amusement, clearly used to the reaction.

“Miss Granger? Sit, child,” she said again, and the girl realized she should probably dawdle a bit less.

“Everything’s all right, Professor,” the girl said as she said on the edge of the visitor seat. “Just, I had a question and I don’t know whom to turn to. It’s not about schoolwork, just something I stumbled upon when doing some reading of my own.” She was looking down at the nearest stack of parchments, trying not to mumble and absent-mindedly registering someone’s upside down handwriting. A fifth-year student was about to elaborate on the state of mind needed to permanently transfigure a graphite rod into a diamond. Their first sentence contained at least two grammatical errors.

“I’ll be happy to answer it for you nonetheless, Miss Granger,” said Professor McGonagall.

Hermione sighed and went on. “So, I was reading about some wizarding history,” she didn’t say genealogy because Harry’s paranoia was starting to rub off on her, “and I stumbled upon a record about a young witch that was very smart, by the sound of her academic accomplishments.” _I’d like to be like her when I grow up,_ she didn’t add. “I was curious as to what became of her later.” She didn’t even look up but she could feel Professor McGonagall nodding along. “I tried to find some other information on her but I couldn’t, nothing except that she married early. Then again, there’s this whole decade missing from the newspaper archives in the library.”

She lifted her head to look at her Professor. She had been intentionally vague so that she wouldn’t be interrupted at least, but she was seeing a disturbed expression on Professor McGonagall’s face. It was as if the witch had a hunch where this was going but really, really wished for that hunch to be wrong. Hermione braced herself.

“Professor McGonagall, what became of Bellatrix Black Lestrange?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, backstory develops! (I was surprised, too.) Also, this one is longer, yay.
> 
> And yeah, technically it still hasn't sunk in yet. I have plans for the next chapter, though! But I still have to write it.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy~~

“Professor McGonagall, what became of Bellatrix Black Lestrange?”

The witch’s face briefly twisted into a pained expression before she could school her features into something neutral. Even then, there remained an undertone of grief to her eyes. _Uh oh._

Professor McGonagall inhaled sharply as if to answer, then exhaled again, then coughed. She closed and opened her eyes, evidently trying to find words to get started. Belatedly, Hermione thought that given Bellatrix’s Transfiguration accomplishments, she must have worked closely with the subject’s professor at the time, and it was highly likely that said professor was currently seated in front of Hermione,

Minerva struggled to compose herself yet again. She was used to Muggle-born students having questions about the Wizarding society but usually, they weren’t on the topic of the past war. Wizarding Britain at large tried not to think about it, and younger children just didn’t have a reason to learn about those times.

Except for independent research, that is.

She considered her options. She could not even think of dismissing the matter or not telling the truth. She valued honesty too much for that, and she respected her student’s right to know. Still, it was a difficult topic, especially for a twelve-year-old (and for Minerva herself, to be frank). Undoubtedly, this moment would hold a lot of meaning for Hermione Granger. She needed not to botch it.

Albus would for sure make it into a moral lesson. Cement her faith in the good side, teach her to second-guess herself so that once she grew up, she would be an asset to their side.

Minerva was an asset to their side, too. She so hated this word.

Albus would make it into a moral lesson, but it was not Albus whom Miss Granger came to talk to.

Hermione watched Professor McGonagall snap out of her thoughts. The girl had had the time to read that essay page two times over and at the moment was in the middle of mentally rewording the entire second paragraph. She shook her head to stop that and pay attention.

“Miss Granger, what I am about to tell you is… not pleasant in the slightest. I will not tell you all the details for your own benefit, but I will also not twist the facts to make it sound better. You have shown me that you are mature for your age, and I trust your judgement.”

Hermione’s stomach fell at Professor McGonagall’s words. Perhaps she was going to get more than she bargained for. Still, she was not the one to back off.

"Bellatrix Black was among the favourite students of mine. A stunningly intelligent young witch, one that could apply her skills both in theory and practice. Always full of new ideas, always ready to challenge the ways that were taught for ages. She was rather bored with her classes—it was no surprise, to be honest,—so I proposed her to work on extracurricular research with me. She published a paper while still at Hogwarts, had another one in the works. I grew rather fond of her. I was planning to offer her an apprenticeship after her graduation.

“She was no saint, mind you, not at all. She came from a noble Pure-Blooded family—well, I imagine you know that by now,—and some of her morals were questionable, at best. She had no respect for authorities whatsoever and she could be rather cruel to those who…” she paused and Hermione’s mind supplied, _deserved it_. “To those who irked her in some way. I believe one or two years she held the records of most points given and most points taken at once.”

_Bella strode into her office, much the same as it was twenty-five years later, and seemed to fill all the room with her presence. In a swish of black curls and green-lined robes, she went for the visitor’s seat and made herself comfortable. She fished a stack of books out of her bag and put it on the table with a thud._

_“I’m terribly sorry for the rush, Minerva,” she said in a tone that made it clear she wasn’t sorry at all, “but I have detention at seven tonight so I’ll have to make it quick.”_

_Minerva sighed, pouring herself and her student a cup of tea, as per their usual routine. “What did you get yourself into this time, Miss Black?” she asked, feigning a stern expression but giving herself away with a mischievous glint to her eyes. ”I’m most disappointed with your immature behaviour, and I don’t yet even know what it is that you did.”_

_“Oh no, I’m wounded,_ Professor McGonagall! _" Bellatrix cried out, then gave a hearty chuckle. “We were brewing a Cheering Draught in Potions today. Poor Sluggie—Professor Slughorn, I mean,—he insisted that we use the finely chopped daffodil root, as written in this inept book of ours. No, I won’t apologize for the ‘inept’. I’m sorry, Minerva, it’s true._

 _“I wanted to substitute it with some powdered ginger. It would have worked so much better—it would have worked, at least, as opposed to the original recipe! But he would hear none of it. So, I put in a double measure of the daffodil…_ and _laced it with some fresh ginger, instead.” Bellatrix smirked._

_Minerva tried to think that through. She was no expert in Potions but she was decent. “This would work even better than just the ginger substitution, wouldn’t it? And it would last longer, too. But… Bella, will the antidote even work on this one?”_

_“It would work,” Bellatrix answered smugly. “It would work if I didn’t put in the daffodil root.”_

_Minerva found herself grinning against her better judgement. “And did he?..”_

_“Oh, he insisted to try my potion himself.” Bellatrix’s smug grew wider. “Now he’s stuck giggling for the next twenty-four hours and there’s no way to fix it. I don’t know of one, at least.”_

_Minerva chuckled. “Not that I approve, mind you, but it was he who asked you to use that daffodil root, didn’t he? And he must have found it very… amusing to give you detention.” She had a mental image of Slughorn giggling through his usual fuming detention speech. “What did he grade your potion, anyway?”_

_“Why, Outstanding, of course! You must think lowly of me,_ Professor McGonagall, _if you doubt the grade I got out of it.”_

_Bella grinned again and took a sip of her tea. They had about forty minutes until she had to run for the dungeons, and there was much Transfiguration to discuss._

“Professor McGonagall?” Hermione asked when the silence stretched for several minutes. The witch shook her head, breaking out of her reminiscence. Hermione was pained to see her wistful, almost forlorn expression.

“Please forgive me for the wait, Miss Granger. I got lost in thought. Sometimes I still miss her dearly.”

Way to go, Hermione. Of all the teachers she could ask, she picked the one who had, it seemed, been most committed to the witch she was so curious about. Still, she pressed on.

“So, what happened, Professor McGonagall?”

“I don’t exactly know,” the witch sighed. "Bellatrix graduated. We made plans to arrange that apprenticeship I mentioned. It should have started the following autumn after I filed all the paperwork and she took care of some family business. She was the Heiress to her branch of the House of Black, after all.

“Next thing I knew, the Daily Prophet had an article about her marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange. This was most unexpected to me. I had… an inkling she wasn’t about to start a family soon, if at all. Certainly not with Mr Lestrange. And she never mentioned anything of that to me.”

“Did her family force her to marry?” Hermione asked, eyes widening, as she connected the dots. This sounded so backwards, even for twenty-five years ago.

"I presume so. Pureblood customs are rather outdated, I’m afraid—you probably already know that. The Black family, unfortunately, is probably the most conservative one. I think Bellatrix intended to avoid the situation, but evidently, that didn’t happen.

“I’ve written to her once. I inquired whether she intended to pursue the plans we made and whether she would be publishing her second work anytime soon. I also mentioned I could provide her with accommodations should she find that beneficial for our research.”

“You mean you proposed her to run away?” Hermione asked, surprised. This younger version of Professor McGonagall sounded much more Gryffindor than the one she knew.

“I might have. I suppose it was a bit rash,” the witch said guiltily. “In any case, I got a reply that stated Bellatrix was ‘otherwise occupied’ and couldn’t continue with the research. Presumably, it was she who wrote it, but I doubt it. I doubt she ever saw that letter. I’m a professor, after all, and I know the way all my students write through and through.

“I wrote again, this time to her family, asking for any opportunity of our possible collaboration. The owl returned my letter to me, open but unanswered, as it did the next one. After that, I didn’t send another.

“I…” she sighed. “I am not a perfect person, Miss Granger, you should know that. I should have written again, should have tried to reach out to her in some other way. I knew something was wrong.

“Yet, I did nothing.” The witch’s expression at the moment Hermione would describe as anguished. She was sorry she brought up the topic at all, yet she couldn’t stop listening in some sick fascination.

“I was hurt that she told me nothing of her arrangements, that she didn’t value the plans we made for the future, most of all I despised her Pureblood family… I didn’t reach out again. Still, I hoped we would reconcile someday, that I would see her at least.”

Her voice dropped and her face grew rigid. In a lower voice, she continued, “And I did”.

“As you know, it was the time You-Know-Who was rising into power. I was part of a… team, of sorts, that strived to stop him. I saw my fair share of action back in the day.

“One time, there was a raid on some poor innocent family, we got wind of it, we came to help. And whom do I see, Miss Granger? None other than my dear Bella, my most talented student. Fighting at the enemy’s side. Flinging spells so dark I hope you never learn of them.

“She spotted me there. She could have hurt me but she didn’t. She told me, though, that I better never cross her path again. And I didn’t, ever since. It was the best I could do.

“I will spare you the details, Miss Granger, for I fear you are yet too young to hear them. She is known as You-Know-Who’s right hand. She is the most feared witch alive in Magical Britain. People try not to mention her aloud. She has committed unthinkable atrocities and for those, she is kept in Azkaban, the Wizarding prison, for life.

“This, Miss Granger, is what became of Bellatrix Black Lestrange.”

Hermione was staring at her Professor, eyes wide open in shock. Whatever she had been expecting, it was not… that. She felt as if she had been struck by something blunt in her chest, still dumbfounded, still unable to process the information.

The witch shook her head, snapping out of that unsettling detached expression with which she delivered the end of her tale. Hermione felt like it almost lacked the impact, having been told in such a level voice. In a way she didn’t quite understand, that only served to make the experience more uncanny.

Professor McGonagall looked at her with warm concern. “I feel that I may have put too much on your plate, Miss Granger. This was unwise of me. I must say, I haven’t spoken much of what I told you to anyone in these years. I may have got carried away. I suggest you go get some rest but if you have any worries at all, please do not hesitate, come to me and I’ll do my best to help you.”

“No, thank you, Professor. Thank you for telling me the story as it is. It means a lot to me” said Hermione, her voice a bit raw. She meant it. While she was very much disturbed by the tale— _still not processing, not now, don’t think of the Mirror,_ —her trust in Professor McGonagall definitely went up a few notches today. “And I will come to you if something bothers me.”

“Very well,” the witch said, visibly relaxed. “Now Miss Granger, any other questions you’ve got today? Perhaps something to end our meeting on a less gloomy note?” She tried to smile; it was a bit strained but Hermione could tell the professor was trying to lighten the mood.

Hermione tried to think of something, she too wanted to ease her mind a bit. “Actually, yes, Professor. I didn’t mean to peek, but… how can someone in their fifth year not know that diamond and graphite are made of the same element but have different structure? Isn’t that supposed to ease the transfiguration? You’d only have to visualize the layered structure and make it into a rigid cubic one.”

Professor McGonagall beamed at her. “Now that’s my best first-year student! You’re absolutely right Miss Granger, permanent transfiguration is possible only if you understand the underlying structure of the matter. To answer your first question, they were supposed to know that, the reason they didn’t was that their homework was to read a part of a Muggle chemistry textbook and the student thought they were too smart for that.”

“Shame on them, really…” muttered Hermione.

“Come to think of it, Miss Granger," smiled Professor McGonagall, "I believe that with this level of understanding, you could do it. If you wish, come to my office at ten o’clock on Saturday morning and I will show you how.”

Hermione’s eyes lit up with excitement. Now that was an unexpected turn of the previously worrisome evening. “I’ll be there Professor!”

“Now that it’s settled, off you go Miss Granger. I believe if you hurry up you can make it to dinner in time.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione said in a low voice as she stood up and headed towards the door. “Both for the story and for the offer.” She dared a look at the witch only to find a strange expression on her face. It was undoubtedly sad but also pleased, and there was something else mixed in. Nostalgia?

As she turned the door handle, she saw the witch glance at the clock on her table, and her expression became even more unreadable.  
Hermione couldn’t know that, but at that moment Minerva McGonagall was counting down the seven minutes of office time she had left, thinking fondly of her stashed bottle of Firewhisky.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloo, me again. I just wrote this in one (absurdly long) sitting. Please have it!
> 
> Next chapter will be kind of a filler one, also the time skips are going to start to happen. (Come to think of it, this one is kinda filler, too, oops. But I like it.)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

Hermione was seated on the floor of the library’s Restricted Section, resting her back against the bottom part of a bookshelf. There were piles of newspaper issues around her, some put together more neatly than others. Several books were in the mix, too. _Pureblood Marriage Customs. A Brief History of Azkaban. The Brightest Witches of All Ages_ (dated 1862).

She was getting to the end of the restricted timespan, and she just finished reading an article about the unfortunate fate of the Longbottom family. The Invisibility Cloak she’d used to sneak in here was askew, showing her head and part of her shoulder. She supposed it was as if she was wrapped in an unseen quilt, except this one didn’t lend any warmth.

There were tears streaming down her face. She had to hold the newspaper out so that she didn’t stain it. It was an archive document, after all.

When she got back from Professor McGonagall’s and what she’d learned had sunk in, she realized she was feeling far too restless. Harry and Ron had asked her what was wrong but she didn’t think she wanted to tell the story there and then. Instead, she asked Harry for the Invisibility Cloak once again and took off for the Restricted Section. She needed to know.

Or so she had thought.

Now that she went through the archives, along with some supplemental reading, she seriously doubted her decision. Not that it wasn’t too late. Perhaps adults really had a point when they decided to restrict access to the war chronicles (for the Prophet at the time was nothing much but that). Perhaps she was becoming much too reckless. The boys were rubbing off her, she didn’t even think twice tonight when she put on the Cloak and headed to break several of the school rules. She wasn’t sure she’d been ready for this.

She folded the last Daily Prophet issue and put it on top of a pile. Then, she proceeded to stare at the bookshelf in front of her, as the flickering flame of her lamp played with shadows of the books. Her mind was whirling but somehow unnaturally calm, too, as if she’d entered the eye of a storm.

She was devastated. She’d skimmed over most of the articles, looking specifically for mentions of Bellatrix Lestrange, but the overall sense of dread and hopelessness still managed to seep through. She could feel it colouring her perception, making herself see her own life in grey tones. She’d pulled out the Brightest Witches book because she was curious as to why it had ended up in the Restricted Section. She now knew better.

She had wondered, too, when she was filling her scrapbook, why there were so few mentions of powerful witches throughout history. Well, there were more.

Witches that made breakthroughs in potion-making. Specifically, poisons. Witches that advanced the Healing theory. Mostly, by performing gruesome experiments on muggles. Witches that put together Magical theory behind jinxes and curses, citing their effects in lengthy detail. Even the inventor of Floo Powder, Ignatia Wildsmith, claimed that “but a twoscore of muggles” had disappeared as she made them test out her initial recipes before she deduced one needed “to be versed in magic, if ever so slightly, so as to provide an impetus for the fare”.

Not to be alarmist or something, but it seemed that the brightest witches had an unfortunate habit of turning evil.

Then there was the whole Bellatrix Lestrange thing. Had Hermione not heard from Professor McGonagall about Bellatrix’s student years, she’d probably have bailed out in horror after the first few articles. While there was no direct evidence the woman had murdered someone, whether in cold blood or in the heat of battle, more often than not, she made the headlines.

She had maimed numerous people, injured a great deal more. The Cruciatus Curse, which, yes, Hermione had also learned about tonight,—she repressed a shudder,—was her trademark. It seemed she got some kind of perverse pleasure from letting her victims live to tell the tale, and while He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had lieutenants that, in terms of numbers, did more damage, it was Bellatrix whom the Wizarding World feared the most.

The Longbottom incident was the last straw for Hermione. To know that when Bellatrix’s side had lost and it became clear she was doomed the last act of the witch was to destroy two other human beings… It was sick. Thinking clinically, Hermione could see the reasoning behind it, the will to go on her own terms rather than be hunted like an animal, the wild beast she herself had created the image of. It was sick nonetheless. Also, it explained why poor Neville always seemed so frightened.

She knew that had she not heard about Bellatrix in advance, she’d have come out of the library with deep resentment to the witch, a burning hatred, maybe. That she’d be glad said witch was safely contained in Azkaban. That she’d perhaps have had forgotten about what she saw in the mirror, written the witch off in her mind as a lost cause.

But the thing was, she did know there was more to the story. And she couldn’t help her compassion finding a way even into this mess of a human’s life. She’d read about Azkaban, too. She only got a vague idea of what Dementors looked like but she could tell the conditions in the prison were the very notion of inhumane.

What would have happened had Professor McGonagall found a way to reach out to her? What would become of her if she hadn’t been pressured into the deep end of the Pureblood propaganda? While she was most certainly not a saint as a teen, Hermione didn’t believe Bellatrix was inherently evil. It just didn’t add up with what she’d learned so far. There was a nagging feeling of injustice around the whole situation, and Hermione felt that she had no power to change it.

There was another thought that made her uneasy. Had Hermione found herself in the same circumstances… What would she have done? Would she be able not to turn evil like so many smart witches before her? (Yeah, she’d come to terms with the fact she was smart, and for her it wasn’t a matter of pride, just another fact to work into the equation.)

Would she be able to not somehow turn evil in the world that was here and now?..

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of brisk footsteps. Flashing a panicked look around and realizing there was no way she could hide everything, she instead quickly stuffed the Cloak into her bag. She might be in trouble but she could at least try not to betray Harry’s secrets.

Just as she was done with the Cloak, Hermione saw Madam Pince round the corner and stop, taking in the scene in front of her. The girl was startled to see the cross look on the librarian’s face soften, then realized it was probably because of the tear streaks still present on her face.

Madam Pince sighed, then said gently, “Miss Granger, I had hoped you’d heed my advice.”

Crap. Hermione realized that the librarian would know what she’d be after. When did she become so horrible at planning? As the girl stuttered through an apology, Madam Pince sent the papers and books flying to their respective places with a wave of her wand, but not before she had a chance to see the books’ titles. The witch raised her eyebrow. It looked almost comical, except that the situation didn’t really warrant it. Crap, crap, crap.

Also, when did Hermione start to swear so much?..

Madam Pince gave her one more appraising look, then said, “Follow me, Miss Granger.”

Hermione stumbled to stand up, her legs numb from sitting, and sped after the librarian. Out of the Restricted Section, through the orderly maze of bookshelves, into a small side door. On the way, Hermione was frantically assessing the situation. She could claim it was for her History of Magic essay, which would probably work, but that left her with being out far after curfew and trespassing the Restricted Section. That meant detention and at least twenty points from Gryffindor. Fifty, if she was being realistic. Crap, and crap, again. That she realized how tired and jittery she felt didn’t help matters at all.

“Sit, Miss Granger.” As she sat, her mind flashed back to several hours ago, when she was doing much the same in Professor McGonagall’s office. No tartan here, though. She made half an attempt at studying the surroundings but she was beginning to feel increasingly drowsy. She idly wondered what time it was.

A kettle whistled, making her realize it had been on for some time, and she watched in mild bewilderment as Madam Pince poured steaming water into a cup, then added something from a jar. The cup slid towards her across the table. This was much at odds with that Hermione was expecting.

“Madam Pince?” she asked, alternately eyeing the witch and the cup.

“It’s cocoa with marshmallows,” the librarian replied, somehow managing to maintain her usual air of dignity. “You look like you could definitely use some, Miss Granger.”

“But…” Hermione started, then thought that the situation was already weird enough and she might as well roll with it. She took a swig of the cocoa. It was just the right temperature, warm but not scalding, and it tasted wonderful. She was pretty sure there was cinnamon involved.

After spending a blissful time drinking her cocoa, Hermione tried again. “Madam Pince, aren’t you going to, um, give me detention? Take points?” Not that she wanted it to happen, of course, but it was only logical.

The librarian looked at her both sternly and kindly. “I believe your experience was unpleasant enough that you shouldn’t be punished for it any more. Though if you think you deserve it… I could organise you detention on Sunday afternoon. I could use help with re-cataloguing the Magical Herbs and Medicines section.”

Hermione nodded, trying not to betray her elation. Helping with the library! This was probably the best kind of detention she could ever get. “I suppose that’s fair, Madam,” she said out loud in a tone as flat as she could manage.

Then, she couldn’t help herself and yawned.

The librarian chuckled. “Now that we have sorted that out… Given that your classes start in two hours,”— _what?!_ —”and that you obviously need some rest, let’s do this: I’ll write Madam Pomfrey a note saying you couldn’t sleep at night and came by the library to pass the time before the lessons. So I sent you on the way to the Hospital Wing to have a sleep potion and get some rest. Which, by the way,” she looked at Hermione sternly yet again, “you _should_ have done in the evening if you actually had trouble falling asleep.”

“But…” Hermione started again, slack-jawed.

“You don’t get a say in this, Miss Granger. Here’s your note, and off you go. I’m sure your friends will help you out with the material you miss, for a change.”

As Hermione left the librarian’s office in a daze, she said, “Thank you so very much, Madam Pince.”

“You can thank me by asking me for help before breaking into the Restricted Section the next time, Miss Granger,” came the librarian’s reply. “However you did it…” the witch added to herself.

Settling into the Hospital Wing bed and feeling the sleep potion starting to take hold, Hermione reflected on the absurdly long day she’d had. She got to know a lot, but also, she felt that some innocent part inside her got lost along the way.

Whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, she didn’t get to decide: she fell asleep.


End file.
